


Venice

by DarthKawaii42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, John takes Sherlock on a gondola, M/M, Mention of past suicidal thoughts, Mycroft is a little shit but we all love him anyway, Mycroft ships it, Pining, Vacation, Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:46:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4837490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthKawaii42/pseuds/DarthKawaii42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to a rather suspicious chain of events (which Mycroft just may have had something to do with) the detective duo end up in Venice, where John somehow manages to convince the great Sherlock Holmes to join him on a gondola trip. Confessions that neither of them bargained for follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Venice

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This fic is inspired by my recent trip to Venice, and because I am complete shipping trash I could only think of what would happen if John took Sherlock there. So, uh, benvenuto~

"What's so special about Venice, anyway?" grumbled Sherlock.

He and I had ended up, of all places, on a cruise liner heading towards Venice.

In an unusual turn of events, Mycroft had sent us on a case, insisting that the perpetrator was on this cruise liner and that we should really board the vessel themselves in order to prove her guilt. To both my admiration and annoyance, however, barely twenty minutes after the ship's departure, Sherlock concluded that the culprit was not, in fact, on board, and that the supposed murder was, in fact, an elaborate suicide.

A quick text message to his brother and the case was thereby closed...

...leaving Sherlock Holmes and I on a cruise liner en route to Venice.

I was going to Venice with Sherlock.

At this point, I think it may be best to confess that over the last couple of years, since Sherlock's... return, I have felt a little differently about him.

My relationship with Mary Wats-  _Morstan_  ended rather quickly after I learnt that it was she who shot Sherlock.

I couldn't live with the one who had endangered his life again, so soon after he had, against all odds, granted me that miracle I wished for at his 'grave'. I couldn't live with the one who had almost stolen him away from me again. It was then that I had realised that it was  _Sherlock_  I loved, not Mary. I wonder, in hindsight, how I ever could've thought otherwise.   
But Sherlock Holmes had never shown any interest of that sort in another person. He was "married to his work", and what could I do but try to continue on, the way I always had, lest he deduce how hopelessly in love with him I was.

But enough of that. At this point, however attracted I was to him, his whining was really beginning to test my patience.

"Well," I said, trying to stay calm, "what's the first place that comes to you when you think of romance?"

"The mortuary," replied the detective, flatly. "Love is a chemical defect found only in the losing side."

I should've guessed.

"Well, you would, wouldn't you. I don't know why I even bothered asking. The point is, most people would say either Paris or Venice."

"Honestly, John, I've told you before..." he said, looking up to the heavens as if they could offer some form of solace for my evident shortcomings, "romance is a superficial concept that leads only to trouble and regret. Who would wish to visit a place that inspires that?"

As he lectured, I couldn't help but think of my time with Mary. It was certainly a fine example of romance leading to 'trouble and regret', as he put it. It is safe to say I was glad he had the unusual tact not to mention her.

But it pained me, the way he dismissed romance as being so trivial... clearly, with a response such as that, there was no hope that my attraction to him could be mutual.

I wasn't about to let this one go, though. Maybe I would never be able to tell Sherlock how I felt about him, but at least I would have this. This fantasy.

Exasperated, I crossed the small room and stood opposite Sherlock. He may be a good foot taller, but I tried my best to look as intimidating as I could.

This is always difficult when faced with the handsome, sharp-cheekboned, piercing-eyed detective.

"Look, Sherlock," I began, in the most commanding voice of which I am able in order to get him to pay the least bit attention. "It's somewhere I've always wanted to go to," I said, "and, now I've been granted the opportunity, I'd like to go there,  _thankyouverymuch_."

Sherlock only grunted.

Clearly, I had to up my game.

"Anyway, what about all the canals?" continued John. At this point I admit I was starting to sound rather desperate. As if the great Sherlock Holmes would be interested in petty canals.

"If it's canals you're looking for, we could've just gone two hours down to Birmingham, where, incidentally, there are more miles of canal than there are here," he retorted.

"But--"

"And in any case, you do know that this place can become rather pungent at this time of year, don't you?" Sherlock continued.

"Look, d'you mind?" I snapped. "Can't we just have this as our weekend off and try to enjoy ourselves for once?"

"I always enjoy our work. This is just time-wasting."

"You know what, Sherlock? Stop being such a stubborn bastard and let loose a little, just for one weekend. I'm going to take you all round Venice and you're gonna enjoy it, or at least keep your mouth shut for long enough for me to enjoy it." Yes, at that point I had finally snapped. What could I do? It was a desperate, pathetic, even, attempt, but this was the best chance I had at getting Sherlock completely alone, in a calm circumstance...

Sherlock huffed and flopped back onto the cabin bed, dark curls spread out over the pillow. "Fine," he conceded, to my surprise. "Just one day. Then I'll call Mycroft and have us taken straight back to London, by which time we will be able to see first-hand just how badly Scotland Yard fares without our assistance."

I took far too long to respond...

A wave of emotion washed over me as I stared down at Sherlock. His dormant figure was just too reminiscent of the body I had seen... Then.

I shuddered.

This grief was quickly followed by a great flood of fondness for the detective. I had to try to ignore the urge to touch his ivory skin, as I'd secretly wanted to do so often since Then... if only for some sort of physical proof that this was all real, that he was really back, that it wasn't just some fantastical mirage all in my head.

"Yes, well, okay then. I mean, good." Finally snapping out of it, I turned away to hide the fact that I'd started blushing (what was I coming to?) and busied myself with organising the desk area of the cabin. It was a rather pleasant not having to shift jars of unpleasantries, and I decided to make the most of it.

What a life.

***

We passed down a footpath flanked by tall, peeling-plaster buildings on the right and the glittering, grey-green water of the Grand Canal on the left, swept along by a crowd of tourists. Stalls crammed with merchandise including piles of flags, straw hats and Pinnochio-esque puppets speckled the street, their wooden struts adorned with eerie papier-mâché masks like gargoyles.

"Lovely place, isn't it?" I mused.

We reached a small bridge, thronged by gondolas. Dark, sleek, ornately decorated, they bobbed around quietly.   
I'd dreamt of visiting this place many times before (although until recently, I'd always imagined it to be with a woman) and now I was finally here I could hardly contain my excitement.

If there's one remedy for over-excitement, however, it's absolutely Sherlock Holmes.

He rolled his eyes. "Eighty euros for a trip in a little boat with a man in a funny hat?"

"Sherlock," I said, looking at him pointedly, "I spend every day of my life with a man in a funny hat."

Sherlock glared at me. "It's a deerstalker."

I laughed. And then Sherlock joined in too. It was almost perfect; we were laughing together, and we were in Venice, and I nearly, so nearly reached out and took the detective's hand in my own... But I stopped myself. I couldn't ruin this by doing something stupid like that.

Once we had fallen silent again, we were left quietly facing each other. It was a moment before I spoke up.   
I had to try this. I couldn't miss the opportunity.

"So, er... now I'm finally here, I'm going to go on one. Are you coming with me, or are you just gonna stand on the side there like a melon?"

There was a rather tense pause.

"Oh, fine, then," huffed Sherlock eventually.

I couldn't believe my ears.

"Here," he said, and tried to hand me his half of the fare, but I waved it away.

"It's fine, I'll pay," I said, producing a thin wad of Euro notes and quickly handing them over to the gondolier.

"Grazie," he said merrily and helped us onto the small vessel.

"Are you sure, John? Don't you... I mean, it doesn't quite seem fair-" Sherlock protested, but I interrupted him.

Although, I can't say that it wasn't refreshing (and highly unexpected) to see this sort of thoughtfulness from him.

"Honestly, Sherlock, it's unusually kind of you but I'm quite happy to foot the bill. I just wanted you... erm... just try and enjoy yourself a bit, okay?"

Sherlock blinked, nodded. Sat himself down opposite me. We stared at one another for a moment as if trying to work out each other's thoughts, until the gondola started to rock into motion.

The boat travelled past rows and rows of elegant flats, all shuttered-windows and painted walls, and underneath low, pretty bridges, rolling and bobbing gently along the waterways.

"You've got to admit," I said, "it's relaxing."

" _Chasing a serial killer_  is more relaxing than this, John," he replied, although not with quite as much bite as usual. I must've been making some headway.

"But it's a beautiful city, isn't it?" I pressed.

"Not really, no. It is freakishly quiet for a city of its apparent cultural importance. The only people around other than all these gondoliers seem to be pathetically over-enthusiastic tourists. And some pickpockets  _disguised_  as tourists - although very poorly, I might add; it is fortunate for them that most people are too busy getting excited over little boats to notice their wallets being stolen. Furthermore, there are no proper taxis and you have to get everywhere by boat, which is slow and cumbersome and impractical. If it's a beautiful city you're after, well, I much prefer London, where at least there's-  _mnh!_ "

And then I kissed him.

_I kissed Sherlock Holmes._

He froze.

Quickly, I pulled back. My heart raced; I couldn't believe what a rash, impulsive thing I had just done.

Sherlock sat there, an almost unreadable expression playing across his sharp features, and blinked. He seemed to be trying to form sentences, or just words... some way of verbalising what was going on in that beautiful mind.

He managed to say only one word. One word which, somehow, seemed to encompass it all.

"John..."

He said my name with the softest, lowest, (dare I say affectionate?) voice I have ever heard, and my heart was in my throat.

"Sherlock, I... I'm sorry, I don't... I didn't..."

"John..." he repeated, quite incredulously.

Sherlock bit his lip.

"Jo-- sorry," he shook his head. "I don't... I don't understand. What was that? What does it... what does it mean?"

"Look, er... Sherlock..." gently, I placed my hands on his and he stilled again at my touch. "There's something I've... erm... there's something I've wanted to say to you for a long time now and I thought maybe you might've deduced it or something so I'm sorry if I'm stating the obvious here but Sherlock..."

He nodded once for me to continue. I took a deep breath.

"Sherlock... I love you."

Sherlock visibly paled (I didn't think it possible to be much paler, but he did), his eyes widening and mouth opening a little. I was worried he might faint. He shook his head vigorously, incredulous, seemingly unwilling to accept what he had just heard.   
I wasn't surprised. I don't know what reaction I had expected from Sherlock, but utter shock and just overall  _disbelief_  had certainly stood as a possibility.

I tried to prepare myself for the inevitable worst, but how would I be able to survive without Sherlock by my side? If I had frightened him so, then what if there was now an awful, awkward tension between us?   
How could I prepare for life without Sherlock Holmes, when Sherlock Holmes was my life?

"John... no, no, no John!" he exclaimed, his voice strangled. "Surely... John, no, John, I know,  _I know_  nobody can love me, I'm... I'm a freak. I'm a sociopath. Everyone knows I'm... I'm just an emotionless, hollow  _machine_ ,  _John_ \--"

"Sherlock..." I said, softly, brushing my thumb over his knuckles. " _Of course_  I love you. I fell in love with you as soon as I met you. Ah-ah--! let me finish!" I quickly raised my hand to stop him from interrupting. I  _had_  to say this  _now_ ; I knew would never get another chance like this. But if I was finally going to pour my heart out to him, he was going to need to keep his mouth shut for long enough to make that possible. "Sherlock... Sherlock, those things you just said about yourself, those awful things... none of them are true. Certainly not to me. You've saved my life countless times--"

"As have you, for me!" he said.

"Yes, but... you know, don't you, that... that the night before we first met, me and you--"

"You and I..." he muttered, albeit halfheartedly, as if correcting my grammar was something that just happened on autopilot, even when he wasn't thinking about it. There was something strangely endearing about that.

Ignoring him, I continued. "The night before we first met, I had a gun to my temple. Alright? I had a gun to my temple because I had nothing to live for anymore. Nobody to love, nobody who loved  _me_  - nothing. Nothing at all."

Sherlock flinched; I felt the jump of his hands under my own. An expression of grave concern fell like a shadow over his face. He looked at me in a way which almost suggested he wanted to touch, to hold, to make sure I was alright and to protect me, but was too nervous to do so.

"It's okay," I reassured him. "It's okay because I didn't, I didn't pull that trigger. I wonder... although of course you'll just scoff at this, but, but still... I wonder if it was some kind of, of  _destiny_  or something at work. Devine intervention, like. Y'know? And God, it's a bloody good job I didn't, because you know what? Not an hour later, after I'd put that damned gun down and told myself I had to keep fighting, Stamford rang."

"And then... the next day, that was..."

I nodded, dropping my gaze to the dark, choppy waters behind us. "I met you, Sherlock. The single best thing that has ever happened to me."

It was as if the air had been kicked out of Sherlock's lungs. His face seemed confused as to whether it ought to pale yet further or blush like a tomato. I wrapped him up in my arms, which he sank into obligingly. He gripped me tightly, as if afraid of losing me.

I closed my eyes. "That was the last time that gun ever pointed towards me. The next time I picked it up was to save you - a much better use, I think."

He nodded forcefully into my shoulder. I could feel the brisk rise and fall of his chest pressed against me; the rapid beating of our hearts combining into a mellifluous rhythm through only the thin fabric of our shirts.

"John... I didn't think you'd ever think of me in this way. I know I was being selfish, but every time you brought home some girl it was a knife to my heart. With every new girl I thought maybe this is the one, the one who'll take my John away from me..."

"Sherlock..."

"Then, of course, I had to leave you for two years..." I felt his fingers tighten on my shirt. "...to protect you."

My breath caught.

"And for those two years it was the thought of seeing you again, of keeping you safe, that gave me the strength to keep fighting. And then... and then when I returned, there was..."

"Mary... oh God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. That must've been..."

"It doesn't matter. Not now," said Sherlock. "John... I love you."

I my face sank into his wonderful dark curls as I pressed a heartfelt kiss to his head.

"I love you too, Sherlock. God, I love you so much."

Suddenly the gondola struck a wall and rocked to a halt, and Sherlock leant back from me. Our trip now over, he stood up and stepped out of the boat, then stretched a hand out to me, which I took, and helped me out too.

" _Grazie mille_ ," said Sherlock, in what sounded, at least to my untrained ears, like a perfect Italian accent. That's one of the most enthralling things about Sherlock: he never fails to surprise me with the vast expanse of little oddities he just so happens to know.

He didn't let go of my hand even once we had tightrope-walked down the narrow pier and were back onto the paved streets once again. His fingers were long and thin, delicate but strong, and I laced my own between his. It may be an overly romantic cliché but it was true -- our hands fit together like jigsaw pieces, or maybe the domes of a clam shell if I was to be a little more poetic. Don't blame me -- poeticism was hardly at the forefront of my mind at that moment; in fact, both my head and my heart were focused only on Sherlock.

I wondered how ever it had taken me this long to realise that my affection for him exceeded that of simple friendship (as I had foolishly presumed) and strayed into a far more romantic, serious form of love. I wondered how I had ever lived without knowing how the passionate touch of his lips felt on mine, and without craving that feeling again.

Like this, we milled aimlessly around the rabbit warren of roads, squares and canals, and eventually came across a quaint little restaurant where I suggested we stop for a while.

We passed through to the back room. It was low-lit, the only windows facing the buildings across the narrow lane, and vintage wine bottles lined the walls. Sherlock chose a small table for two in one corner and I sat down opposite him.

In the flickering glow of candlelight, Sherlock looked almost ethereal, the flames highlighting his sharp features and illuminating his eyes, turning them almost silver.

"You're beautiful," I said, before I could stop myself.

He blushed. "I was just thinking the same about you."

We sat in silence for a moment, trying (and, largely, failing) not to stare at each other.

After a few minutes I spoke up. "I could kill for a cuppa," I muttered with a smile.

Sherlock laughed. "And you accused me of not appreciating the local culture!"

"Oh, alright," I grinned.

His smile then faded.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"John... I was thinking..."

"No surprise there then."

He rolled his eyes. "I was thinking, what... are we? What is this? This... between us?"

I was taken aback by the question. I hadn't even thought about it, about what it really meant. It just meant that I loved him, and, apparently, that he loved me.   
But what were we? 'Boyfriends' sounded rather trivial, 'partners' not strong enough.

"I know what we are, Sherlock."

"Oh?"

"Of course. We are what we always have been. We are The Detective And His Blogger."

"With, erm... some benefits, yes?"

"God, yes."

Suddenly, he took me by surprise by leaning over the table and kissing me. "I've wanted to do that for so long, you wouldn't believe."

"Oh, believe me, I would," and I kissed him back.

We parted enough to rest our foreheads together, grinning like idiots. I was reminded of the time we stole an ash tray from Buckingham Palace.

Then something occurred to me: "I just thought -- you don't think Mycroft..."

"I'm exactly ninety-seven -point three percent certain that Mycroft set this up, yes. Make that ninety-eight. No, ninety-nine-point-six." Then, as if on cue, I heard his phone ping. "One hundred percent," he growled. "The meddling bastard. How bloody typical of him."

I couldn't help but laugh. With a soft kiss to his forehead, I pulled away enough to be able to see him properly again.

"Aren't you going to read the message?" I asked.

"No need," he said dismissively.

"Go on," I encouraged him.

He rolled his eyes, sliding the phone from his breast pocket and handing it to me. He watched as I unlocked it (he changed the code every day but taught me the algorithm so I could work it out) and read aloud the message, which was indeed from Mycroft.

" _So glad you and my little brother have finally realised your hopeless attraction to each other. Do tell him that his Italian accent is getting sloppy; my agent was disappointed. Your tea is courtesy of the British Government, so be certain to enjoy it. I knew you'd prefer it to champagne.  
\- MH._"

"Tea for you?" said a waitress who had appeared behind us bearing a fancy tea set.

"The meddling bastard," repeated Sherlock under his breath.

Suddenly the phone chimed again in my hand. " _Language, little brother -MH_ ," I read.

Sherlock shook his head, lips pressed together in a thin, frustrated (but just slightly amused) line. He took the tray from the waitress. " _Grazie mille_ ," he said, in what I presume was a more accurate pronunciation than before.

"Much better, Mr Holmes," said the waitress (or, by the looks of it, government agent).

Never one to refuse a compliment even in the obscurest of circumstances, Sherlock cracked a half-smile and passed the tray back.

Meanwhile I did one of the things I do best. One of the very few things I do  _better_  than Sherlock.

I poured us tea.

 


End file.
